


Dogs Don't Talk

by sassyjumper



Series: Post-finale Road Trip [8]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst and Humor, Gen, Post-Canon, The X-Files References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:33:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21711346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassyjumper/pseuds/sassyjumper
Summary: For some reason, I decided to log onto my old LJ account today, after years away.  And I realized there was one old fic from the Road Trip series I never posted here.  Maybe because it's so short and G-rated.  Anyway ....
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Series: Post-finale Road Trip [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/33982
Comments: 14
Kudos: 40





	Dogs Don't Talk

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason, I decided to log onto my old LJ account today, after years away. And I realized there was one old fic from the Road Trip series I never posted here. Maybe because it's so short and G-rated. Anyway ....

“You smell.”

Wilson nodded, keeping his eyes on the TV screen, where Mulder and Scully were just entering the Peacock brothers’ house of incestuous horrors. It was Wilson’s favorite episode. The freak.

House grabbed his cane from its resting place on the coffee table and used it to poke Wilson’s shoulder. “No, really, you stink. Move.”

Wilson sighed. “You move. I have cancer.”

House rolled his eyes. _Again with the cancer._

“I can’t,” he informed Wilson. “There’s only the couch or the floor. Cancer people can sit on the floor.”

“So can jackasses.”

House sniffed loudly. “Seriously. Why do you smell like that?”

Wilson crossed his arms over his Houston Astros hoodie—which, House realized, he hadn’t mocked for days now. He made a mental note to get back on schedule with that.

But first things first. “Is that”—He leaned into Wilson’s personal space—“Labrador retriever?”

Wilson looked at him sharply. “How do you—” He stopped short and closed his eyes, and House could almost hear the silent cursing. It nearly made him smile.

“How could I tell the breed just by scent?” House finished the question. “I couldn’t. Do you think I’m a dog or something?”

Wilson returned his gaze to the TV. “No, I’m sticking with jackass.”

“Why do you smell of canine?” House pressed.

“House. We’re gonna miss the bludgeoning. It’s your favorite part.”

House grabbed the remote and paused the DVD. “There.” He angled to face Wilson. “Is that what radiation smells like these days?”

Wilson was on his second week of chest radiotherapy, which meant daily trips to the hospital on the Cancer Bus. Wilson hadn’t said anything, but it was obvious that after two rounds of induction chemo, the added blasts of radiation were wearing him down. The neuropathy had finally stabilized, but it hadn’t improved, and the fatigue seemed to be settling deeper into his bones.

Every so often, a nagging voice in House’s head reminded him that Wilson could give up at any time. And because Wilson was Wilson, he might even maintain the charade of getting on the bus every day.

Wilson turned to look at him. His face had been transformed over the past couple months; now it was all hollow cheeks, gray-ish skin and dull eyes. The new mask made it harder than ever to tell if he was lying.

“Are you asking whether I visited a dog pound instead of the hospital?” Wilson inquired. “Then no.”

House crossed his arms, to mirror Wilson. “Then why does your sweatshirt smell like Scooby-Doo?”

“We really need to find you a hobby.”

“We really need to find you a can of Lysol.”

Wilson let his head fall against the backrest. He had only so much energy for inane banter these days. “Fine,” he said wearily. “I started seeing a therapy dog today.”

House blinked. “A therapy dog? I mean, I knew any monkey could be an oncologist, but…”

Wilson closed his eyes; his nerve-damaged fingers had gotten so clumsy, he no longer pinched the bridge of his nose, but House could mentally supply the image.

“OK, here’s the story,” Wilson began, eyes still closed. “The hospital has an animal-assisted therapy program. While you’re waiting to be fried with radiation, a nice person comes in with a nice dog and they wait with you.”

Wilson opened his eyes and nodded at the remote in House’s hand. “Can we get back to the graphic depictions of violence and incest?”

House ignored the plea. “Wait. So some stranger with a dog just sits there with you?”

A sigh. “The person just sits there. The dog…” Wilson flapped a hand half-heartedly. “You, y’know, play with the dog.”

House couldn’t quite picture the scenario. Probably because it was ridiculous. “How do you play with the dog in a waiting room?”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “Why do you care?”

“I’m curious about how a mangy, slobbering mutt is helpful to an immuno-compromised tumor sack such as yourself,” House clarified. “You’re misinterpreting that as caring.”

Wilson smiled wanly. “Ah. My mistake.”

“So?”

Another sigh. “I don’t…It’s not really playing. Maxine just—”

“Maxine?”

“That’s the dog’s name.”

“Who names a dog Maxine?”

“What’s wrong—” Wilson paused and held up a hand. “No. I’m too tired for this. Maxine just sits in the chair next to me and we sort of…” He shook his head. “We sort of cuddle.”

House gaped. “Why?”

Wilson looked at the paused TV screen and pressed his lips together. “It’s supposed to make people feel better.”

House waited for further explanation, but Wilson kept staring at frozen Mulder and Scully. “Does it make _you_ feel better?” he finally asked.

Wilson gave a little shrug. “I think so. I mean…Yeah, I think so.”

“Seriously?”

That made Wilson look at him. “Why is it so hard to believe?”

House balked; he wasn’t even sure. “Because it’s stupid,” he said reflexively. “And you’re not an eight-year-old girl.”

Wilson frowned. “Well, I’m sorry if you’re bothered by the stupidity of it all. But I’m sticking with it anyway.”

House narrowed his eyes. “The dog owner is a hot blonde, isn’t she?”

Wilson did his head-tilt thing. “Have you ever _wished_ three inbred brothers would break into your home and bludgeon you to death?”

House refused to be thrown off track, though he still wasn’t sure why. “Did one of those cute oncology nurses talk you into it?”

Wilson groaned. “House. I read about the program, and then I signed up. OK?”

_No,_ House decided. “But why?”

Wilson stared at him for a moment, then looked down at his hands in resignation.

“It’s just nice, all right? It’s…comforting to have another living being touch you, for no reason except to touch you.”

House opened then closed his mouth. He hadn’t been expecting a direct answer like that, and he wasn’t sure how to respond. “It’s a dog,” he heard himself say.

Wilson huffed a little laugh and shook his head. “Yeah. And you know what? Dogs don’t talk. They don’t tell you how to feel, or what to do. They’re just there.”

House knew he should mock the hell out of that little speech. Wilson was asking for it, really. But for some reason, he didn’t feel like it.

_I must be tired, too._

House blew out a breath. “Well, I certainly can’t argue against the joys of not talking,” he acknowledged. “Go ahead and snuggle your puppy if it makes you feel better.”

He expected that to win him some what-for, or at least a disapproving glare. But instead Wilson just looked at him, like he was too weary for the usual guards, and House felt an odd little flutter in his chest.

He cleared his throat. “In fact,” he forged on, “I support this development. Now I don’t have to lick your face and sniff your butt.”

Wilson returned his attention to the frozen TV characters before House could read his face. “You’re off the hook,” he agreed.

“Thank god,” House muttered.

Wilson nodded. “Let’s watch,” he said.

House obediently hit ‘play’ on the remote and they fell silent again, as the Peacock brothers got into their convertible and Johnny Mathis began to croon about how wonderful his love was.

Before long, though, Wilson shifted in his seat, and House noticed the maneuver seemed to have narrowed the gap between them. It could have been deliberate, he thought; Wilson was a huge baby about on-screen violence, despite his macabre tastes in TV shows.

Or, House reasoned, maybe he was just imagining things.

_Probably._

In his peripheral vision, he saw Wilson squeeze his eyes shut as the good sheriff met his unfortunate end. Again, House recognized a perfect opportunity for ridicule. But again, he let it pass.

When the fictional mayhem was over, Wilson shifted once more, and this time he definitely inched closer—House was sure. He turned to catch Wilson smiling sheepishly at him.

“That scene gets me every time,” he admitted.

“I’ve noticed.” House gestured toward the TV. “Let’s watch.”

Wilson silently agreed, and they sat like that for the rest of the night.


End file.
